We Were Never Here
by paradises
Summary: Massie Block isn't the type to get a severe form of lung cancer. Until she does. / or, the story of letting go of the world before you have the chance to see it / happy birthday, natalie!


**sum;** Massie Block isn't the type to get a severe form of lung cancer. Until she does. / or, the story of letting go of the world before you have the chance to see it /

**notes |** this is quite short, but i hope it's okay with you guys, but it's also my longest oneshot by about a hundred words; hope you guys like this! please leave a review, with any feedback and/or cc. i've probably used this quote before, but it's so beautiful, so, :)

happy early birthday, natalie! sorry for not posting this tomorrow, but i'm not going to be on my computer, so i thought better early than late; you're an amazing person and writer and i hope that you like this! **prompts;** "[she'd always hated speaking in public", "stars blazed in the night sky", "it was the first snowfall of the year", & silk.

**We Were Never Here**  
massie block & the upper east side

_"people always want to know what it feels like, so i'll tell you: there's a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you've done something you shouldn't have, and yet you've gotten away with it. then you sort of go into a trance, because it's truly dazzling — that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. and — god — the sweet release, that's the best way i can describe it, kind of like a balloon that's tied to a little kid's hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. you just know that balloon is thinking, ha, i don't belong to you after all; and at the same time, do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? and then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights._

_when reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don't ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. you can feel your embarrassment; it's a backbeat underneath your pulse. whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. you literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you've let yourself down. so you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it's summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. you throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy."_

— **handle with care **/ jodi picoult

Massie thinks that her world is falling apart on a Friday — it's quite a horrible day, really, if she was to be completely honest; and there's a storm outside, stars blazing in the night sky. She shivers underneath a warm array of blankets, splayed on top of her dress, still wet from the rain seeping through the thin satin material, flimsy and undependable. It was only a matter of time before the dress would rip. Balancing a laptop on top of a light lilac towel, Massie ponders about everything before furiously typing up a letter. She types, and types, and deletes everything an instant, deciding that there's no self validation, no gratification in the process. There's no point in doing something so useless, when time is short. Nevertheless, there's no real point in life, and she wishes that it could just be over, a sharp snap. Like a guillotine. She secretly wonders if it's the slightest bit sane to wish that she had been Marie Antoinette at the end of the French Revolution.

Therefore, she shuts her computer and screams for Inez to bring her a notebook of paper and a bag of chocolates, to prepare a bubble bath. A clock strikes at midnight, barely three hours after she had first dragged herself to the bathroom, and her throat is dry, leaning against the wall, clutching it as though Massie's about to free fall; the box of chocolates is empty, wrappers golden and bronze, chocolate stains sticking to her fingers which she washes off quickly, disgusted with herself.

She tries repeating the process, sticking her finger down her throat once more before it turns out that nothing will come out, no matter how hard she tries. Massie stands up, glancing at herself in the mirror before falling back onto the floor, her tears muffled by a pillow, perhaps not heard due to the tap still running, the tub almost overflowing before she starts draining the water. She opens the bathroom door, the clear sound of a lock opening evident before realizing that the chocolate wrappers are still scattered throughout her room; she quickly takes the box, and throws it into Claire's bedroom, her toes still wet from the grass of shoes that she had hastily put on, discarded with a kick and the snapping of the wood glue; and the fact was the shoes weren't even hers. What was?

Claire would understand. Or, she wouldn't. Nevertheless, Claire didn't have such a messed up life that Massie had, what with the seemingly perfect boyfriend standing her up on the night of the prom, their first prom, and Massie was supposed to be prom queen, only as a junior, but attending Prom, without a date? It was almost unheard of except for nerdy geeks and social losers who usually ended up staying home, something that Massie actually wasn't regretting doing. If she had attended the prom, it would be probably be something along the lines of sitting on the sidelines and stuffing her face with brownies and chocolates until people started staring at her, disgust in their faces, some sort of loathing and jealousy combined to form hatred and anger. Like, the way that she's re-examining herself right now. Her dress seems to be stuck, the lace ribbon tightly binding layers of fat and nonexistent muscle and Massie wishes that she could find some way, any way, to cover the bruises and the slashes at her wrist, perhaps pulling it off as Sharpie marks. Something of the like had happened to one of her friends — a friend that probably wouldn't be there for her now; but then again, all of her true friends didn't know the truth. Nobody knew the truth, for now.

Eventually, the truth would be let out in some way; it was one of the most natural and fundamental laws of the universe, and Massie Block wasn't one to contradict those sorts of rules. She stares at herself again, wiping away the mist that forms on the mirrors from the heat in the room, and notices her cheeks are looking a little plumper than usual, and it's not because of the fifteen or so layers of foundation and blush that she had applied four hours earlier. That had already been washed off with the water. Nevertheless, Massie scrubs her cheeks, pulling at the thin layers of skin until they start bleeding and she has to try to stay calm instead of screaming. She would have school tomorrow.

Nobody could see her like this, and Massie isn't aware of any sort of fashion trends that cover a person's cheeks, unless they're from this overprotective parental country, like, like, India. Or, China. And, it didn't seem to right to say that she was trying to use different cultural influences onto her clothing, because both India and China had lots of adorable clothing, but that wasn't the problem. She sees her thighs then, and that gloating image in the back of her bedroom when she slightly opens the door, of her and her four best friends in the entire world, back in eighth grade. Memories flash back to kindergarten, and how life was so much simpler back then, and a flashback comes to her, vivid in its entirety, along the lines of;

( It doesn't start off with the dreams of paradise. Her life has always had this element of wanting to be somebody else, to be able to dress up and pretend; even when she's older and grown up, Massie pretends as though she's still in high school, and can live her way of life as such, never having to face the harshness of reality. All the way, even before high school, she was never the one chosen. For the longest time — and perhaps, it is still this way; Massie has always been the first person to raise her hand, and the last one to be picked. Even before the dramatics began, she was never going to be the right person, never the first choice. They're already stirring up trouble — and it's only the first week of kindergarten. Massie is pulling on the two side braids; because this is the hairstyle that non-neurotic, mature five year olds wear, right?; that dangle past her bony shoulders, tugging on them and trying to ignore all of the other kids who are crying and walks to the swing set outside. It's cold, and there's wind running through the playground and Massie can't help but think that she just wants snow to fall on the ground, and a Prince Charming, and a home. That's all she ever wanted, but it's always never enough because she's Massie Block, the one that _nobody wants, _the neurotic freak with jealousy issues, and the one that's always going to be somebody else's second choice. She's known this for a long time. ) And then, the flashback's over.

The five of them, the so called Pretty Committee, were standing in front of Octavian Country Day, and perhaps it's the last time that life will ever be the same again; right now, looking back at those blissful moments, Massie scoffs at how innocent and carefree she used to be, and turns back, looking at the bathroom and the scratches at her face — perhaps she could say that it was a coyote. Except, Westchester didn't have coyotes. The Upper East Side didn't have coyotes; they were civilized, privileged people; and even if UES had coyotes, Massie wouldn't dare associate in those sorts of areas.

.

Massie Block isn't as perfect as she seems on the outside — the bitchy, cold exterior covered with retorts and snark; it's just an act. On the inside, she's just as broken and hurt as any high school individual. She sometimes ponders upon the world, seeming to be doing a lot of that lately, and wonders what would have happened if something, anything had been different on that Friday afternoon. Of course, Kendra ( she can't bear to call her Mother ), figures out about the bruises that start forming on her daughter's stomach and Massie thanks God that she's not a cheerleader. An exposed stomach would ruin everything; plus, she wasn't exactly the preppiest person in the world, rather sticking to snark and defeating people than being cheery for people she didn't really care about.

Of course, Kendra decides that Massie should be seeing one of those Upper East Side doctors who tell you whatever you want to know based on the bribe, but her mother ensures that there wasn't a bribe given that time, and thirteen minutes into the appointment, Massie almost believes her; because a doctor hasn't ever asked her to take a blood test, twelve blood tests to be precise, before.

So, she's taken to the clinic next door, a high class facility that somehow manages to bring together all of the charity cases and lump them in a pile near the doorway but Massie has special privileges, being rich and pretty and all, and goes into the first office on the left; she decides that she doesn't like her doctor. Technically, the woman who's taking her blood tests isn't exactly a doctor, but Massie doesn't really care about anything anymore, mostly annoyed about the fact that Kendra has taken away her cell phone. Now, she can't pretend to have friends; her only friend, really, is Claire, and Claire's everybody's friend.

The blood is drawn sharply from one of her veins, as her arm is pressed together and a needle gently prods, twenty vials of dull red blood, polluted it seems to be with black dots, are taken out and placed into a container; she starts getting worried after the tenth vial of blood, and wonders if this is some sort of charity work but doesn't bother to ask. She's too preoccupied with having more than 10K followers on Instagram; as much as Claire has. She doesn't ever think about doing what Claire does, which is primarily being nice.

As soon as the blood test is finally over, Massie begs for her iPhone 5 back, because she swears that she's been hearing a familiar ringtone, though her mother swears that it's just Massie's vivid imagination, as if having an opinion on anything is absolutely distasteful; the doctor quickly exits the scene, probably wanting to avoid the family drama ( Massie doesn't blame her; she would leave to, if she had the option ) and says that she'll be back in a few minutes after the blood tests are transferred to the general hospital, and the results are mailed back. A few minutes turns into a few hours.

Kendra leaves after three of those hours, tossing over Massie's phone to her, leaving her in the middle of nowhere and saying that the limosuine and chaffeur will be outside of the doctor's office after the results are given. It seems as though she sits down upon one of the dirty chairs, grimacing at the dust and then deciding to stand for another few hours, as if this will be her daily exercise, along with Pilates, of course, in the evening. She scrolls through her phone, more particularly the phone application of Instagram which she seems to be obsessing over, at least in the last few days, and ever since that junior Prom scandal with Cam never showing up, her follower count has been dropping and dropping, and now she barely has as many followers as _Layme Layne. _Ugh; she finally decides to sit down upon the seat. Massie randomly scrolls around her phone, trying to focus on the SAT flashcards, because this is what the perfect UES girl would be doing before her senior year, but she's never exactly been the perfect girl of the Upper East Side, now has she? The doctor comes in a few minutes later, not looking the least bit shocked that Kendra has already left, probably dealing with a lot of kids with parents who get easily bored; she announces the results, slowly, using euphemisms but;

Massie Block isn't the type to get a severe form of lung cancer. Until she does.

She cries for hours upon finding out the news, because this isn't how her life is supposed to go, ending in approximately four or five months, because she was supposed to be the real life Blair Waldorf, and Claire, the biggest crybaby in the world, would somehow magically transform into carefree Serena Van Der Woodsen, and she would fall in love with somebody perfect like Nate Archibald, also known as Cameron Fisher, and then realize that Chuck Bass, also known as Derrick Harrington in real life, was the right person for her, and it would be a happily ever after, worth all the agony.

Nothing would happen now, nothing would be worth all the agony and the dramatics because everything was going to be over soon, and there wasn't really any point in trying anymore. Before she knows it, the cold hearted doctor is asking her to leave the room, perhaps never knowing what to do with this awkward situation and Massie laughs a little to herself, knowing that her mother actually hadn't paid the bribe this time.

Her mother. She wasn't quite sure how to break the news; Kendra would probably think that she was lying, and that this invention of lung cancer was a way to get out of physical education, because Massie had pulled the _orangitis _card back in the seventh grade, having a secret obsession with Wizards of Waverly Place in Disney Channel, but none of that mattered because this was the real life. She couldn't keep on hiding this dirty little secret forever, and somebody had to arrange an appointment with the oncologist tomorrow — she looks up her contacts and calls the last person that she thought she would call.

"Hello Mrs. Harrington," she speaks in a voice that's all sugar and spice and everything that's nice. "Can I talk to Derrick?"

Derrick picks up the phone seconds later, grumbly still, "What do you want, Block?"

She smirks through the phone, "I know that we're not exactly on the best of terms, but how would you like to work on a little project together. Or, more, exactly, how good are you at mimicking Kendra's voice?"

.

Eventually, people do start finding out about her appointments to her oncologist, because though Massie has a credit card, everything goes towards her parent's insurance because she's only seventeen years old ( and will die seventeen years old ), and the first person to find about the fact that Massie has a severe form of lung cancer is Kendra. Massie should have seen this coming, because there's no other reason why she would be called down to talk to her mother, on a Friday evening instead of socializing with a group of friends who turned into social enemies when school resumed on Monday mornings.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Her mother's voice almost breaks and Massie would feel about this but she's strong, and she's Massie Block and she can take care of herself — she's been doing that quite fine for the past seventeen years, and she can manage another four and a half months.

That night, she dreams about death; it's not the same kind of nightmares that she's had as a little child, when she would be reincarnated into a Greek princess, or perhaps one of the deities, a minor goddess in another life but she's seventeen and a half years old now, and she knows that when somebody dies, they're not really going to come back to life, at least not any time soon. She'll be enveloped in a time of nothingness, and she'll have peaked a high school, quite a horrible point in time for somebody to live, and she decides to just live life as much as possible until it stops;

She starts with repairing friendship. Claire is the first to notice that there's a change in Massie, and marks it as something unusual, as if she's trying too hard and wonders if Massie really isn't losing her edge after all, and Massie only smirks in response, gathering together her old group of followers and walking together down the hallways, heels perfectly in sync, their curls flawless. It's just like the good old times, for as long as she can pretend to live in toy world, and keep on living life as though she's still in high school.

Massie loses control of herself on a Friday; she's always loved Fridays, the late nights and the binge drinkings that always catches up on the one morning that she would be able to sleep in, Sunday mornings of course reserved for shopping trips and watching Hepburn movies, the classics of course had to be the best. She comes home at around ten o'clock, and for some reason or another, Kendra has cooked a dinner ( no doubt that she ordered it from some fancy restaurant, and put them on ugly coral plates ), and slowly stomachs the disgusting food, wondering if Kendra had actually cooked the food.

Her breath catches upon eating the peanut chutney, and she chokes slightly, excusing herself to the bathroom; Kendra just looks slightly annoyed at the excusal, wondering about how much she would rather have Claire than Massie as a daughter. It's exactly one hour and thirty minutes, and Kendra decides to check up on Massie, who's lying on the floor, foam coming out of her mouth, unconscious.

.

Claire's the first person to find out.

Then again, Kendra's only found out and it's only a matter of time before Claire was called, after all being the only emergency contact listed on Massie's phone, though she's not quite sure what happened during that time period, and Claire just stares at up at her with these judging blue eyes, and Massie sighs because she knew that something like this was going to happen. After all, she knew that people were going to start judging her, looking at the ice queen almost as if they pitied her, but she knew that she choose her friends well when Claire sneaks her out of the hospital room;

"What the _hell _are you doing, C?" She grumbles, getting in the habit of that lately, her bed hair and crust still forming around her eyes probably not the best way to start of the night but she realizes that Claire's taking her to a party, a party at one of their friend's houses and immediately freshens up before she walks into the door; everybody stops, and stares at her.

Massie just sighs, and walks into the middle of the room, and turns on the music. "Well?" She asks, smirking. "Is anybody else going to dance?" But, she's always hated speaking in public, and the words come out wrong. Everybody's still just looking at her, almost as if they pity her and she knows that coming here, in the first place; it was all just a horrible idea. At least, until Cam and Derrick pull her over, the boy that she loved too much and the boy that loved her too little. Her love life is slightly complicated, mostly nonexistent and she's quite confused because the last time that she checked, Cam and her weren't on speaking terms ever since he cheated on her with Claire, the bitch. But then again, they were still best friends, sisters almost, and nothing could separate them forever — _especially not Cam Fisher._

"I'm sorry, Mass," Cam almost looks sheepish; that, because of the way that he had ditched her at junior Prom, it was somehow is fault for Massie getting lung cancer in the first place, and weeks earlier, even days earlier, Massie would have easily snatched up this opportunity to retort Cam and make him feel humiliated, just like she had felt but then, she's about to die, and Massie's never felt less bitchy. She doesn't really like it. "Do you still have my pin?" She's talking to Derrick this time.

He still has it, and it gives her hope. They don't exchange words — it's too painful.

.

She dies on a Friday, the first snowfall of the year. Fridays were always her favorite day.

Massie's body is surrounded by the people that she loves, and Claire's the last person that she talks to. "I've always been jealous of you, y'know," she had muttered, letting out a small breath. "You're going to be a great queen, C," she says, her last words echoing around the cavernous expanse, crowds of people forming outside the doors not because they really care, but because Massie has always mattered to her people.

Claire is still clutching onto her best friend's body, and Cam doesn't even try to drag her away; and a tear glistens in Derrick's eye, and if this wasn't the most horrible of situations, this feeling that they would all have to let go someday, but they didn't want to have to do this when they were in their prime, when they were only seventeen years old; in truth, nobody knows but Derrick Harrington was the last person to speak to Massie. "I'm sorry," he says, slowly, dragging the words out and then speeding them up because there's not much time left. There's never enough time to say the right words, not now, not ever.

"Derrick Harrington?" Massie laughs. "Who knew that you could say sorry?" Those were her last words — they're not as majestic as the ones that she had uttered to Claire only minutes previously, but Derrick's still there, feeling numb and broken when her eyes have closed.

.

Years later, it was like Massie was never there.

._fin_.  
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